


Twelve days of WHY DO WE DO THIS TO OURSELVES??

by AtoTheBean



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 31 days of Bond, M/M, MI6 Cafe, but really 12 days of Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-06 05:30:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16826122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtoTheBean/pseuds/AtoTheBean
Summary: MI6 Cafe's challenge for December is '12 Days of Bond'.  This is my submission, planned to be a set of 12(ish) drabble(+) chapters filling the prompts and telling a Secret-Santa story, because I haven't written one of those yet.





	1. Bugger (Prompt 5—Blasphemy)

“Fuck!”

“Who’d you get?”

Q whips the slip of paper behind his back before Eve can read it. She’s not supposed to know anyway, but he _really_ doesn’t want her to know now. “No one.”

“No one makes you swear like a sailor, does he?”

“How do you know it’s a ‘he’? Maybe it’s Sheila down in budgeting and I’m just worried about how many calculators one person needs.”

“You’re one to talk. How many do you have?”

He freezes. “Forget I brought it up.”

“You don’t have Sheila.”

“I could,” Q insists.

“Miles drew Sheila and is over the moon about it.”

She’s got that smug Moneypenny-knows-all look that drives him mad. _He’s_ the one who’s supposed to know everything, but he always feels a bit wrong-footed during the holidays. Especially _this_ holiday, what with Bond being back and everything feeling the same but different.

“So, how many ‘gifts’ am I supposed to give?” he asks, pretending he hasn’t read the rules over a dozen times.

“As many as you like between now and the party, but you can’t spend more than fifty quid altogether. So, one nice gift, or a bunch of bric-a-brac from Brixton Market. Your choice.”

“All right. Well, thank you, Moneypenny. I’ll give it some thought.”

She sashays out of his office, and when the coast is clear, he looks at the slip of paper again.

 _Bugger_!


	2. Sweets (Prompt 16 — Cookies)

By the time he arrives the next morning, his first gift is already on his desk: a tin of home-made sweets. He eyes the early-to-rise Q Branchers to see if any of them are looking suspicious or blushing. They are all working and as pale as usual.

He makes himself a cup of tea, checks his email for fires that need putting out, and finding none, inspects the tin.

There are chocolate biscuits with raspberry dollops, wee mince pies, and the very best (because yes, he’s already sampled them all… he was running late and didn’t have breakfast and the tin is basically a life preserver) are the [Lavender-Earl Grey shortbread](https://www.letseatcake.com/lavender-earl-grey-shortbread-cookies/#wprm-recipe-container-3294) biscuits. He can smell the bergamot even through the competing aromas.

They’re all delicious. By mid-morning, as he’s tinkered with the gear 007 will need for his quick jaunt to Paris, he’s eaten a third of them and jealously guarded the rest from the greedy, grubby hands of the minions. He tries to remember who he’s ever heard talking about baking. Jen, but she favors cakes and decorating to biscuits and tarts. Marcus, but he’s out with the flu. There are various older women in legal and accounting who famously swap recipes. None of them knows him well enough to be aware of his favorite tea, though he supposes it’s not that hard to find out. For a division full of spies...

“What’s that?” Bond asks when he comes to retrieve his gear.

“Hmmm? Oh, my first Secret Santa gift. Handmade sweets.”

Bond inspects the contents with his hands in his pockets. “Kincade’s wife used to make shortbread. All sorts. On baking days you could smell it all over the moors. I used to nick it from her kitchen.”

Q glances at him with a surprised grin. It’s rare for Bond to open up about his youth. He picks the tin up to make room for Bond’s gear. “Would you like to try one?” he asks, holding it up before he stores it in his bag.

Bond frowns and shakes his head. “Thank you, but I’m not much of a sweet tooth anymore. Will you be on comms with me, or is R leading this one?”

“R will be with you tonight; I’ll take over come morning,” Q answers. The chitchat portion of this meeting is over, apparently. He gives 007 his Walther, a radio, and a half dozen bugs, all of which Bond stashes under his suit jacket.

“I’ll check in when I get to Paris. Do you have a car for me?”

Q hands him a key. “Second floor of the garage. Not terribly flashy, but she has it where it counts.”

Bond smiles, nods a farewell, and heads out of the branch.

At home that night, eating the last of his stash — because Q has _no_ willpower when it comes to some things — he realizes that the biscuits are a good idea. Cheap, so they don’t take up much of the budget, and considerate. Completely inappropriate for Bond of course, but he likes the idea. Not one large gift or a series of meaningless tchotchkes, but small things that show some thought was given about the actual receiver.

It’s dangerous, of course, thinking too much about Bond. But he’s been more aloof than usual since his return. Or more wary. Perhaps it’s time to bring him in from the cold a bit more than just shoving a new MI6 badge into his hand.

Grabbing his laptop, he sets about hacking Bond’s online life for clues. The man is careful, with no social media presence. But within an hour Q’s compiled odd little requests he’s made for missions or in medical, his shopping history at three online retailers, his “reading” history at Audible, and his history at radio.net. By the time he’s ready for bed, Q has a plan.


	3. Shiny Black Boots (Prompt 17—Trip)

Bond’s Paris trip goes off without a hitch, and for a change, Q decides to let R have first crack and the data since Bond isn’t on his way back until late Friday afternoon and Q is meant to have the weekend off.

Besides, he wants to take a trip of his own.

The forecast is for sun, and it’s likely to be the last nice weather of the year. Q could leave Sunday morning, but he wants to be at the doors when they open. So he drives down Saturday night, listening to Christmas songs to distract himself from the frankly horrid traffic. This is why he lives _in_ the city where he can take the Tube into work if he likes. The suburbs are hell, but soon he’s driving through rolling hills and feeling the stress of the city slide off him. Besides, it will all be worth the trip. And this isn’t just for Bond, he reasons. He should be able to get a lot of shopping done.

There are, of course, car boot sales in London, but the city is so expensive that these hardly count as bargains. Q only has 50 quid to work with, after all. Besides, the Mini could use one last airing out for the year, and the view of the sea from the Brighton Marina Giant Car Boot Sale won’t be this good again until spring. He stays in the Malmaison Brighton, right across the street from the marina, and is at the gate at 5:45 a.m., buttoned up against the cold and holding a paper cup of tea with both hands for warmth. At six, they open the gates, and the races are on. It’s not terribly crowded yet, but by eight all the best deals will be had.

He allows himself 30 pounds on Bond here, not wanting to spend all his funds at one time in case he gets another idea later. As it turns out, he doesn’t come close. He finds unsorted vinyl records for a quid apiece. With just a bit of searching, he discovers some gems, including original presses of the bebop artist James tends to listen to when driving: Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Cannonball Adderley. And he’s sure Bond can use them because, based on his recent online purchase history, the man just spent 500 quid on a new turntable and speakers.

A few booths down he finds cheap CDs. He’s practically cackling when he finds a Christmas album by Earth Wind and Fire for only 50p. Bond’s radio.com favorites included two funk stations — which he’s sure Bond would deny to preserve his suave reputation — but Santa knows all, especially if he can moonlight as a hacker. Peace on Earth is well and good, but guilty pleasures are more attainable. 

He spends a bit more on a book of snorkeling and dive sites around the world — Bond frequently finds an excuse to dive when he’s traveling — and a rather dingy tumbler-and-decanter set that he’s almost sure is cut crystal under the grime. He’ll be able to tell once he cleans it up at home.

While he’s at it, he picks up a lovely brooch that he can alter into a lockpick-hiding hair clip for Eve. He’s tempted to pick up a tie clip to do the same for Bond, but he’s afraid his handiwork would be too obvious. This is meant to be anonymous until the end, after all. A bag of random knitting needles and yarns that look suspiciously like angora seem to have R’s name on it. She’s been knitting during breaks since July and he’s certain they’re all getting mufflers for Christmas. For Tanner, he finds an old illustrated copy of Shakespeare’s Histories. By 10:45 a.m. he’s shopped out, but gleeful and hungry. He grabs some scones before piling everything into _his_ boot and listens to the Earth Wind and Fire CD on the way back to London to be sure it doesn’t have scratches, liking it well enough to rip it before he wraps it.

He gets to MI6 early Monday morning, before the night shift has quite dispersed, and slips the wrapped CD into Bond’s locker in the gym. When he reaches his office with the intent of erasing himself from the video feed covering the gym and surrounding hallways, he sees his second gift has already arrived: another biscuit tin.

He opens it to find lovely handmade cookies in the shape of snowflakes. Not sugar cookies... he sniffs them, unsure of what comprises the delicate balance of spice in the aroma. Opening the folded paper in the tin he finds a typed message:

_You seemed to enjoy the last batch, so here’s another tea-based biscuit:[Chai Snowflakes](https://ourfoodstories.com/2015/12/glutenfree-chai-snowflakes-glutenfree-gingerbread-cookies.html/)._

_Don’t eat them all in one day._

“Not the boss of me... probably,” he thinks as he eats the first one, groans in delight, and promptly reaches for a second.


	4. Now bring us some... (Prompt 9 — Sticky)

“Oooh, what’s _that_?”

Q quickly covers the lockpick set with a file folder while simultaneously licking the fingers of his other hand clean.

“What’s what?”

“This,” Eve peering into the open tin and then raising an eyebrow at him. She eyes the other tins lining the head of the desk: the empty one that had the mix of biscuits, the half-empty Chai Snowflakes, the one from two days ago, featuring [Earl Grey truffles](https://food52.com/recipes/19665-earl-grey-vanilla-bean-truffles-two-ways), and the newest.

“No biscuits this time?” she asks, moving to slip her finger in before Q snatches the tin away.

“[Tea infused sticky toffee pudding](http://allrecipes.co.uk/recipe/36042/sticky-toffee-pudding-with-earl-grey-and-rum.aspx), according to the note,” he says, licking his fingers again because sticky doesn’t quite cover it.

“Sounds delish. Any idea who’s got you?”

“Someone who wants to fatten me up?” Q guesses.

“More like someone who knows you run on tea and sugar, and thought they’d just kill two birds with one stone… or several, as the case may be.”

“I’m going to gain a stone if they keep this up,” Q notes. 

“I don’t think your in any danger of losing your waifish good looks.”

Q rolls his eyes. “Ta, Eve."

While his guard is down she dips her finger in and scoops out a bit of the sticky sauce. “Ooh, that _is_ good,” she says, licking it off. So no ideas?”

Q shrugs. “One of the biddies— I mean _dears_ — down in accounting I suppose. They’re always swapping recipes. Telling me I’m thin.”

“Hmmm.” She sounds unconvinced. “How’s yours coming?”

“Nope,” he says. “I know how this goes, I know that look.”

“Look?” she asks, feigning innocence,

“That’s your Ms. Money _penny-for-your-thoughts_ look. You aren’t getting anything out of me.”

“Just a hint,” she whines, giving up all pretense of subterfuge. “M’s been a right ogre with the budget hearings. I need a distraction.” She takes one of the truffles from the third tin. “Just tell me what division… Q Branch, Agents, Execs… Medical?”

“Not a thing, Moneypants. And stop nicking my sweets. Hasn’t your Santa brought you anything good to eat?”

“All I’ve gotten are gloves,” she pouts, leaning her hip against his workbench. “They’re nice, but… nothing says ‘I don’t know anything about you’ more than a pair of gloves. Alec, on the other hand, has gotten all these specialty foods from Russia — Korovka Chocolate Wafers and a tin of sweets that looked like a nesting doll… oh, and canned pickled fish that looked _revolting_ , but which he seemed quite keen on. None of it’s big or particularly fancy, but he said he hadn’t had one of the sweets since he was a kid. And then there’s Bond’s walking around with this little bounce in his step. Someone’s found all these old vinyl records and he’s having a smashing time trying them out on his new stereo. Has been heading to the gym first thing every day in case there's another.”

“Vinyl?” Q scoffs, pushing his glasses up his nose and feeling the warmth rise in his cheeks. “That’s rather archaic.”

“Hmmm. He says the old ways are best, and the sound is warmer. I don’t know what he’s on about, but he’s right pleased. It sounds like he’s really moving into his flat this time 'round — not just living amongst the crates. New fancy sound system and all. I hope it lasts. He’s headed back out, by the way.”

“What? When?” Q looks up at her. “I haven’t heard anything.”

“In two days. Greece, I think. Someplace warm. I’m a bit envious, actually.”

“But he’s just got back.”

Eve shrugs. “If memory serves, he prefers to be out over the holidays anyway. But he shouldn’t be gone long. I expect you’ll have the mission parameters by the end of the day.”

She takes a bite of her truffle and freezes. Closing her eyes, she slowly chews the rich tea-infused chocolate and groans.

“Bloody _hell_ , Q! I don’t think one of the biddies could have made this for you. Someone who really _likes_ you made these.”

She turns to the glass wall, searching the minions on the floor for suspects. As if he hasn’t done that a thousand times already.

“Here, have one for the road,” he offers, and she accepts gladly, selecting one of the white chocolate truffles this time.

He’s sure she’s wrong, but he likes the idea an awful lot.


	5. Deck the Halls... (Prompt 10 — Disco)

“What’s all this?” Bond asks as he approaches Q’s station, nodding at the current state of Q Branch.

Q looks up. “Oh, the Minions have started their decorating. It will be in full force by the time you return.”

“‘The Minions’? Last I heard, you refused to call them that for fear it made you seem like an evil genius.”

Q just motions to the main bank of monitors at the head of the room. A banner spans the top of every one, reading “Q Branch Minions Will Prevail!” in a font that looks like strings of fairy lights.

Bond huffs a laugh. “Taking the division decorating contest rather seriously, aren’t they?”

“You don’t know the half of it. That banner is on every screen in -6. Even the Execs. Even _Medical_. M’s rather put out, but I told him I have actual missions to prepare for and can’t take the time to write a patch and push it through, much less review the last update to see who might have snuck it in. Besides, if he’d just give them a chance at decorating the tree in the lobby one year, I imagine they wouldn’t need to be so clandestine in their merrymaking.”

“And the music?”

Q searches his station for the camera tie clip he’d tested earlier that morning. “Well, it’s a bit before my time, but if I were to search the archives I believe we’d learn this was a musical form popular 40 to 50 years ago, called _Disco_. The Minions claim the up-tempo beat makes them code faster.”

“Disco Christmas music?” Bond muses, eying Q curiously.

“Well, it’s not all Christmas music, but yes, there’s a bit thrown in for good measure. I think I’ve left your tech in my office, 007. Would you come with me?”

He darts toward the stair to his office hoping Bond won’t notice his ears going pink. He can practically _hear_ that Earth Wind and Fire CD. He’s been doing so well at the whole _secret_ part of this Secret Santa thing, but he’s not a field agent, and Bond is the most observant person he knows. Lying to Eve is far easier.

“Here we go,” he says, finding it on his workbench. “Let me just find a case for it.”

“Who are the lockpicks for?” Bond asks, picking up the small apparatus Q had devised to hold them in place behind the brooch.”

“Hmm? Oh, Eve.”

“Is she yours? The person you’re delivering gifts for?”

“If she were, I couldn’t tell you,” Q says absently, looking for the rest of Bond’s kit. “Besides, do you think I’d really get her gloves?”

Bond smirks. “Perhaps not. Though they were good quality." Looking around the office, he says, "I didn’t realize you practiced yoga,” nodding at the rolled mat in the corner. Observant… far too observant.

“I normally do it at home, but with the influx of sweets and long hours here, I decided it best to add a session or two a week. Helps keep my neck from getting stiff, as well. Alright, here we are: Walther, comm, tie-pin camera, radio, documents, and this,” he holds up a silver pen. “Rotate here and any of a number of tools will emerge when you click the top. Should help access the innards of the computer.”

“Does it explode?”

“Sorry, Bond. Father Christmas says you haven’t earned that yet.”

Feigning a put-upon sigh, Bond looks over the documents. “Is there a chance of postponing my flight back by a day?”

“Any reason?” Q asks, opening the secure travel app to see if any seats are available. “Looks like Economy Class only.”

“That’s fine,” Bond says, and when Q raises an eyebrow, he adds, “I’ve received a book on diving locations, and there’s one nearby I’d like to visit, but it’s deep: I can’t fly for a full 24 hours after—”

“Or risk the bends,” Q nods in understanding. “I’ll need to clear it with M, but I don’t see why not. He’s sending you out before your week’s up, after all. He should be able to allow you a bit of personal time, so long as Q Branch has the connection to their network.”

“Thank you, Q.” Bond’s looking around the office, hand in his pocket. Observing, yes, but also doing that little sway he does when he’s considering a choice. It’s one of the few tells Q knows.

“Anything else, 007?” he asks as he keys out the request for the postponed return to M.

“Will you be with me? In my ear?”

Q looks up. It isn’t often that Bond cares who’s offering support, so long as it’s there when he calls. “I’d only planned to be online during the actual party — when you’ll be accessing the servers. But I’m working. If you’d prefer, I can monitor your mission the whole time. I’ll just have to shift some other projects to R.”

Bond shrugs. “Only if it’s not too much trouble. It’s probably nothing, but I feel a bit twitchy about this mission. Like we’ve missed something.”

Bond’s instincts are not to be taken lightly. “I’ll be with you,” he assures.

Bond nods a farewell and heads down to the branch floor with his kit. Q watches from his office, surprised to see him stop at R’s station and talk with her for a moment before glancing one more time up at Q and then leaving.

Q can't help feeling a bit smug that Bond's putting his dive book to use. Or that he's asked specifically for Q's support on mission. But if he has a bit of a bounce in his step now, he's sure it's just the disco.


	6. Now we don our gay apparel... (Prompt 15 — Mail Order)

James is right, because of course he is. It takes Q a day of hacking and James a day of recon to determine the mark knows he’s coming and has laid a trap to capture him and thwart his exploit of the computers during the party. 

They argue over whether to abort the mission, stick with it, or alter it. 

“I can still go,” James offers. “It’s sometimes easiest to walk into the trap anyway, and trust that you can get out since you know about it.”

“Yes, I’m well aware that’s your MO. Let’s do things my way for a change, shall we? We still have a bit of time before the party. There’s no need to panic and do something stupid.”

“Springing a trap you know is there isn’t stupid, Q,” Bond counters.

“If you’re on your own, perhaps not. But when you have back-up and a team to help you, there are other options. Alec’s on his way. Since they’re watching for you _at_ the party, he’ll be infiltrating the catering staff and gaining access the day before. While he’s embedded, you’ll cause a distraction that will allow him to slip in where he’s not wanted. I’ve already hacked the video feeds and can lead you both.”

“What sort of distraction?”

“They’ve put in a rush order of some sort of gold ribbon for dressing the tables. Apparently, today’s shipment was silver instead, and they’re in a right panic over it.”

Bond pauses. “I’m delivering a _mail order_ package?” 

“Alec will have your courier ID and uniform when he meets up with you, and I’ve secured a lorry. You won’t have any trouble getting past the gate.”

“ _Uniform_?”

“Yes. And Alec knows that all I want for Christmas is a picture of you in the FedEx International uniform.”

“He wouldn’t dare. Q…”

Q can’t help but bite back a chuckle.

“No whinging, Bond. It’s for the mission. Alec will be in a culinary smock. You’ll both be in and out before they’re even looking for you, and you’ll be off a day early to your sunny beach or wherever you’re going.”

There’s a heavy sigh. Q waits for Bond to realize it’s a good plan. “Fine, but no pictures.”

“I make no promises.”

The mission goes off without hitch. M is pleased, and Bond reluctantly admits that a fair amount of drama was likely avoided, though he doesn’t necessarily sound pleased about it.. 

As Q tidies up his station to go home, he gets a picture texted to his work phone from Alec, with the note “you owe me.” 

It’s a bit blurry, but undeniably Bond in a delivery uniform. And damn if he doesn’t make even _that_ look good. 

He's smiling down at his phone, grinning like an idiot, when he realizes something. He’s gotten two gifts over the last few days: a tin of very nice tea and a bag of ‘Irresistible Catnip Biscuits’ for the non-humans in his family. But he’s received no home-made baked goods since James and Alec left the country.

He feels his mind go offline. It can’t be. There’s no way either of those men bakes. James doesn’t even _like_ sweets.

But then, he’s not the one eating them…

No. The odds of he and Bond selecting each other must be astronomical. He could calculate them, actually, but there’s no need. It’s not Bond baking for him. It just can’t be.

Nevertheless, he savors one last biscuit before he leaves.


	7. Let it snow... (Prompt 21 — Snow)

At half eleven, Q can’t sleep. He doesn’t have work in the morning, so he kicks off the covers, wraps himself in a dressing gown, and goes to the kitchen to make a toddy. The cats join him in the kitchen begging for treats, which he gives to compensate for waking them. He takes his warm mug of herbal tea and whiskey over to the window, intending to draw the curtains against the cold. But it’s snowing, flurries gently swirling in the light of the streetlamps, and he finds he can’t close himself off from that. Not when it so closely matches the whirling of his mind.

Instead, he sits in the window seat in the dark and watches the snowfall, wishing he’d brought the biscuits home to have with his drink. Perhaps he’ll bake tomorrow, though it seems a waste when he still has tins half full at work.

Which brings his mind to Bond.

He still has twenty-two pounds to spend, if he likes, and he’s nearly out if his boot sale purchases. He grabs his laptop and curls up again, blanket over his legs and toddy within reach. Through the window, London is slowly accumulating a blanket of snow. He reviews Bond’s Audible history again, along with the purchase histories on a few sites. He hacks Bond’s Amazon search history to get more ideas and comes to a few conclusions.

Bond has expensive tastes. No surprise there, but it becomes clear that 22 quid isn’t going to go far with respect to anything on his wish list. _Maybe_ a jar of his favorite olives for martinis, but those don’t really go with anything else Q’s gotten him. It’s not as impersonal as a pair of gloves, but considering how well Q’s done with his gifts to date, it feels like a step backward.

Something to go with the tumblers might be good. He settles on a few molds for ice — a large cube and a large sphere — since he can’t afford any decent scotch with what’s left. That gets him down to within five pounds of the fifty he’s meant to spend. Enough for a card, or maybe some ingredients.

He takes a sip of his toddy and looks out the window. The flurries have lightened, but he knows the forecast is for snow on and off all night. Puts him in the mood to actually decorate for Christmas, which he only gets around to every few years, his work schedule being what it is. He wonders the other MI6ers have the same issue… so busy they can’t be bothered until it feels too late. The agents are often gone over the holidays anyway. He imagines it might feel a bit sad, but then again, escaping London when there are reminders everywhere of the family he doesn’t have might be a blessing. No one is thinking of him, anyway.

Except, someone is. Whoever has him as a Secret Santa _is_ thinking about him, at least in some sense. _He_ hasn’t gotten gloves. Someone is thinking about his tastes and his cats and… it’s not a lot, but it’s definitely something, and it warms him almost as much as the toddy.

And he’s thinking about Bond, for what it’s worth. And Bond has been enjoying his gifts, from what Q hears. And maybe it doesn’t matter to Bond that someone’s thinking of him… maybe he’s content to be far away on some beach and just be a bit chuffed that he didn’t get gloves, but then again, maybe not. There’s something about Bond’s search history that gets Q thinking. Along with the posh housewares and electronics he’s been buying for his new flat, Bond has been looking for audiobooks for very specific stories. Things that aren’t available on Audible. Mostly Scottish tales — children's stories, really. Of all the things Q’s found in his digging, it’s the only thing makes him feel he’s intruding, because it seems so _sentimental_.

It makes Q wonder if Bond is seeking some sort of connection to his past. He remembers Bond’s comment about Kincade’s wife and the shortbread. He may not have a sweet tooth anymore, but the memory seemed to be a pleasant one. A link back in time.

Perhaps Q can get further in finding these stories than James apparently did. He searches various libraries, including online folklore museums, but all he can find are print copies versions; nothing seems available in an audiobook. He even checks the library for the blind, but there’s nothing available. But he finds the text. He finds _beautiful_ scanned versions from 1911 with lovely illustrations. He’s not sure what he’ll do with the information, but he bookmarks the web pages.

He wonders, as he finishes his toddy, if Bond feels a connection to London. Or if he’d like to, but is away so much that it’s difficult. And he wonders if he feels a connection to Q himself. Well, not _Q…_ but his anonymous Secret Santa. Bond’s enjoying his gifts, but is he enjoying knowing that someone is thinking about him enough to pick them out? It’s a dangerous thing, really. Q feels _close_ to Bond right now, but he isn’t. Not really. He’s just putting thought into what might be a thoughtless endeavor. It’s all one-sided. Stalkerish, even, considering the hacking he’s done. But he can’t shake the feeling of… almost _intimacy_ he feels. And he hopes James feels it too, even if it is just to an anonymous person. He hopes he feels a connection of some sort; a tie back to London and -6 that goes beyond being a tool for Her Majesty.

Q feels it with his Secret Santa… whoever has been baking and buying gifts for his cats and generally showing that they are seeing something in Q beyond his ability to troubleshoot a tech problem. Even if that person really is just one of the old ladies in budgeting, there’s something nice about it, but if it’s _Bond_ , well… that’s thrilling and oh so very dangerous. Because he promised himself when Bond walked away on that bridge that he would snuff out his crush like the cigarettes he used to smoke and never let himself feel any of that again. And he’s been doing well. Even as he’s dug into the man’s life to better pick out gifts, he’s kept the whole thing at an emotional distance, enjoying the competition of finding the perfect thing without being particularly sentimental about it.

But sitting in his window, as the snow makes everything look new and clean and secret, he knows that’s not quite true. And he wonders…

Getting up, he sets his mug off in the kitchen and retrieves a brand new burner phone from the stash in his office. It’s got a shit lens, and the snow has stopped falling, but he snaps a pic out his window and texts it to Bond’s mobile.

FC: Don’t want you to miss the first snow of the season.

FC: 

It’s after midnight now, and even later in Greece, so he can’t expect a reply until morning. If he gets one at all. His thumb hovers over the screen for a moment, but then he resolutely sets the phone down and goes to bed. He hopes he won’t regret his impulsive text in the morning.


	8. Reindeer Games (Prompt 26 — Reindeer)

Q awakens at half eight the next morning to grey light and hungry cats.

And a text.

JB: Who is this?

Q smiles and decides to make himself a cup of tea and some toast and marmalade before he responds. Wrapping himself in his dressing gown again, he makes his way down the hall with the cats nearly tripping him as they follow along. He’s surprised to find it’s still snowing and rather chilly in his sitting room, but his slippers are cozy and the tea piping hot. And it definitely feels more Christmasy than the on-and-off rain they’ve “enjoyed” since the beginning of December. Perhaps he’ll be bothered to decorate after all. He sits cross-legged on the sofa and sips his tea with one hand while typing on the burner phone with the other.

FC: Father Christmas, of course.

He’s only managed one piece of toast when the reply comes in.

JB: Oh yes, I see. How do I know it’s really you and not some department store imposter?

He takes another sip and puts his tea down so he can type with both hands. The cats join him on the sofa, Aisha curling up so he can barely move his arm without disturbing her. He’d complain, but she’s warm.

FC: Shall I list your gifts so far in order?

FC: 1. Earth Wind and Fire CD

FC: 2. Miles Davis LP

FC: 3. John Coltrane LP

JB: Okay, I’m convinced.

JB: So you just thought you’d let me know it’s a winter wonderland at home?

FC: Well, it’s not exactly “deep and crisp and even” yet, but give it time.

It takes a moment for the response to come in, and Q fills the time petting Aisha and watching the snow.

JB: I suppose this might count as white and deep and even (taken yesterday as I was returning from my dive)

JB: 

Q can just imagine James coming out of the water in his bathing suit, SCUBA gear strapped to his back, water sliding down his—

He really shouldn’t be thinking about Bond coming out of that water.

FC: Lovely, but not really my sort of a place. Glad you’re putting your book to good use, though.

JB: I am indeed. And thank you.

JB: I suppose you prefer the snowy north.

Q bites back a grin.

FC: Terribly sensitive to the sun, you see.

JB: I knew Father Christmas must be British… this clinches it.

Q laughs out loud, startling the cats. As they scatter off the sofa via the most direct path — across his legs with claws out — he fumbles the phone with an _ow fuck_ and it tumbles to the floor and slides under the coffee table He retrieves it to find:

FC: asdfewa

JB: I’m sorry, what was that?

_Shit!_ Uh...

FC: A reindeer knocked into me and I dropped the phone. Sorry.

JB: What on earth are they doing in the house? Or are you touring the stables now?

FC: Oh, you know. Reindeer games.

JB: Indeed? Who’s winning? Rudolf?

FC: Rudolf’s a little shit. Cheats.

Aisha jumps back on the sofa and nudges his hand.

“Yes, I forgive you, love,” he coos.

FC: Prancer’s winning.

JB: Prancer? I’m not sure I would have seen that coming.

FC: She’s a sly one.

JB: She’s in good company then. I’ve been surprised at how well my gifts have suited.

Q feels warmth in his face and a pleased little flip in his stomach.

FC: Well, I see you when you’re sleeping, I know when you’re awake…

Q winces. When not sung in a chipper melody, that sounds positively creepy. James seems unperturbed.

JB: You voyeur, you. In that case, I’m frankly amazed I’m on the “nice list” at all.

Q stares at the phone, not quite sure what’s happening.

JB: I can be very naughty…

Q gasps a laugh. _Bloody hell_. James is flirting with him. And doesn’t know it’s _him_. That is… oddly thrilling, and a bit disappointing. He takes a sip of tea, mustering his courage.

FC: What makes you think you’re on the “nice list”?

Q bites his lip, awaiting the reply.

JB: My gifts have been *very* nice. As you know. So I assumed…

JB: Then again, I imagine one man’s naughty is another man’s nice

_Bloody fucking hell!_ Q adjusts himself and takes a sip of tea before replying:

FC: Quite.

Q waits while the “...” indicating James is typing seems to last a particularly long time.

JB: I feel you’re sending very mixed messages, here. If I wanted to optimize my gifts, would I be naughtier or nicer?

It’s really too much. How on earth is Q meant to answer? He finishes his tea and rather wishes it had whiskey in it, because bloody _fucking_ hell. Finally, he writes:

FC: Well, there’s naughty, and then there’s *naughty*

Q sets the phone down and gets up to make another cup of tea, because he can’t bear to watch another interminable ellipse.

When he returns, there’s only one word.

JB: Quite.

Q laughs and decides he’ll go out for the day, despite the snow. He has far too much energy to stay indoors.


	9. "...Bring us out a mouldy cheese, And some of your Christmas loaf"   (Prompt 14 — Cheesy)

He’s out in the world by the time the shops open at 10 — not at all typical for a weekend. It's still snowing, fairy lights adorn pretty much everything, bells ring every time a door opens, cheerful music plays everywhere, and the crowds are bustling and not yet grumpy. In other words, it's perfect.

First, he buys a few gifts for people _other_ than Bond. Something for R and Eve and Tanner, tins of sweets to place about Q Branch for the poor sods working Christmas Eve. He picks up a wreath for his flat and is on his way to Tesco when he spies a specialty kitchen shop. He’s never stepped in one before, but he’s drawn in and quickly inspired. Firstly, they have a huge bar section, full of novelty gifts that would have easily used up the 50 quid for Bond in one go, so it’s probably best he didn’t find this place until he was nearly done. But there’s a shelf by the registers full of discounted stocking stuffers, notably electronic “ice cubes” that are waterproof, can be frozen, and twinkle with tiny lights that change color. It’s the strangest combination of ingenious (no watery scotch) and tacky and cheering. Q can’t resist them, telling himself that he’ll return the other ice forms or give them to someone else, but these _have_ to be part of Bond’s gift.

He’s also inspired by the samples of savory shortbreads they have. [Stilton and Rosemary](https://www.closetcooking.com/stilton-and-rosemary-shortbread/). [Asiago, Lemon, and Thyme](https://theviewfromgreatisland.com/asiago-lemon-thyme-shortbread/). He can’t afford the dear prices they’re charging, having already spent most of his budget, but he has many of the ingredients at home anyway… just needs to find some suitable recipes, which several food blogs provide with a moment’s search.

By the time he’s run to Tesco for a few ingredients and has more bags than he can comfortably carry, the shops are much more crowded and the patrons have frantic, desperate looks in their eyes. Which, even if he weren’t done, would be his signal to go. He retreats back to his quiet flat and turns on the all-Christmas-all-the-time radio station that he normally abhors but is rather in the mood for, at the moment. Then he changes into an old t-shirt that he won’t mind covering in flour and starts baking.

He overcooks the first batch. They aren’t _bad,_ but they’re too hard once they’ve cooled and definitely brown rather than golden. Still tasty, though, even if he does prefer his shortbread sweet. He can see these suiting Bond’s cocktails and is excited to try again. With an adjusted baking time, the next several batches come out golden and soft, the cheese and herbs filling the flat with a warm, nutty, somewhat decadent aroma that contrasts beautifully with the crisp chilly frost on the windows and snow falling outside. It doesn’t smell like Christmas in the traditional sense, but as he pulls the decorations out of the closet and starts hanging the fairy lights around the room, he thinks he’ll associate it with Christmas from now on.

He doesn’t have a lot of decorations. Nor traditions. Moving from home to home as a youth dispels the myth of Father Christmas at an early age, and he’s not generally one for sentiment. But since becoming “Q”, he’s amassed a small collection of nerdy Christmas decorations — Doctor Who, random coding puns, several giant “Q” Scrabble tiles — all gifts from Minions or other coworkers. They’re ridiculous and corny and garish, and he loves them all. Not only do they make him chuckle, but they make him feel like he has a home. He remembers who gave him each one (well, perhaps not each specific Scrabble tile), and as he hangs them from the wreath, they look as much like Christmas as any tree with tasteful silver baubles he’s ever seen.

He adds whiskey to his tea and hums to the radio as he wraps the shortbread biscuits up to take into work in the morning and slip into Bond's locker. On a whim, he types up both recipes and includes them in the package, in case Bond really does have a secret baking habit.

He also includes a little note:

“It wouldn’t be Christmas without a few cheesy gifts.”


	10. "Making Spirits Bright..." (Prompt 12 — Spirits)

Monday is bloody _awful_.

He gets in early enough to plant Bond’s shortbread in his locker and scrub the video footage, but then is immediately caught up in a crisis. The Americans are threatening to leave Syria, and there’s already chatter on websites MI6 monitors about a new route for weapons trade, and who might move in to fill the power vacuum. The CIA has information and contacts, and Bond is trying to work with his friend Felix to get information passed along to MI6 before the covert operations are restructured as well.

Q’s job is to verify the information as it comes in, and secure it, and try to identify where the situation on the ground is already changing and the intelligence might already be stale.

“It’s always something,” Eve complains as she brings in another set of files on assists in the area that could be brought in to help interpret this much new intelligence. “We none of us can ever have a peaceful holiday.”

“Our job is to make sure other people’s lives are peaceful,” Q says without looking away from the computer screen. “Not to have peace ourselves. You’ve chosen the wrong line of work, Moneypenny, if you expect peace.”

Bond looks up at Q from a few stations away, nearly distracting him from—

“Ah, here it is,” Q says, pointing at the screen. “The weapons traders they’ve identified as the most likely to make use of the new route. We’ve got an Agent Khalil stationed nearby in long-term undercover.”

Bond is at his side, now, reading over his shoulder.

“Do you know him?” Q asks quietly.

“Just by name and reputation,” Bond answers. “He’s good, from what I know. A bit brutal at times, but he’s stationed in a brutal area. M trusted him.”

M-the-former, it’s understood. That goes far in Q’s book.

“I’ll get a memo up to current M with the details. Tell Felix we appreciate his assistance.”

“I will do. Do you think we’ll be launching a mission?”

“To make contact with Khalil?”

Bond nods.

“Let’s see if he responds electronically. I should be able to establish a secure link that can allow us to get the intelligence to him without the need for anyone to travel.”

“Is that as safe?”

“For whom?” Q asks. “It’s likely safer for Khalil not to have a meeting forced on him, if he’s embedded and being watched.”

“For us,” Bond counters. “I don’t know if there’s anyone in the agency who’s really worked with him. Might be best to get fresh eyes on him. Things can change for agents in deep cover.”

Q shrugs. “That will be M’s call. If you have concerns, you should take them up with him sooner rather than later.” Q looks up to see just how much Bond seems bothered. His usual inscrutable agent mask has slipped a bit. “I’m sure M would appreciate your instincts, Bond.”

He offers a small smile. “If you can make acceptable contact and his responses seem right, there’s probably no need for concern. You have a contact number and code for him?”

“Just waiting on M’s approval to proceed.”

“Well, let’s see if your instincts are triggered first, and then we’ll worry about mine.”

Q spends an exhausting four hours coordinating intelligence to M, then establishing contact with Khalil, and then running through protocols to bring him back in, at least electronically. M wants a report from him before trusting an agent he’s not yet met in person, walking a line between Q’s concerns and Bond’s desire to lay eyes on the man and judge for himself. In the end, Khalil is able to get somewhere alone and Q sets up a secure web meeting and they are all able to size one another up and discuss the likely ramifications of the new intelligence. Q knows it’s going well when Bond’s shoulders relax and M sits back in his chair. They agree to leave Khalil where he is at the moment, but with more regular check-ins, and a promise to call for back up if the situation changes rapidly.

By the time it’s all over, Q feels satisfied with the results, but also has a splitting headache and a stack of work he’d intended to start on that morning that’s only gotten taller in the intervening hours. He sits at his desk and fingers the top file, wondering if he’s really got the energy to start on it. He’s been here long enough that he’d be justified in calling it a day. M and Bond and the others went upstairs a while ago and the branch is emptying out. But Q feels oddly ambivalent. As cheerful as his home had seemed over the weekend, the thought of it now makes him lonely. He doesn’t want to spend the evening in an empty flat, no matter the fairy lights and cats.

He sighs and starts on the forms in the first folder, but his mind won’t stay focused. It keeps drifting to the day’s meetings. Bond kept watching him, asking his opinion. _Listening_ to his responses. It was all professional, but it felt… god, he doesn’t know. Almost intimate. Not _intimate_ , but like they had an understanding. They each weren’t going to agree to a plan unless the other agreed to it as well. Like they were on a team working out the best strategy, and M was just watching on and blessing their final decision. He’s not sure they’ve ever worked that way before. He’s felt Bond’s professional faith and admiration before, but never so personally. Never working together rather than dividing and conquering. It feels different to have Bond seek his advice and integrate it into a plan, rather than merely tap him for some quick fix or piece of information. It showed a level of… of _trust_ that Q wasn’t used to, least of all from an agent like Bond.

He stretches his aching neck and rubs his brow, trying to ease his headache. Out of curiosity, Q digs the burner phone out of his courier bag. He hasn’t had a chance to check on it all day, but there’s a message from 10 in the morning.

JB: Delicious.

JB: These will go well with my Christmas martini… or is that the sort of thing that gets me on the naughty list?

Q laughs and feels noticeably better. The comment seems so separate from the serious work they’ve done all day, but it also feels like just what he needs. He leans back in his chair and types out a reply.

FC: No more so than usual. And I thought they might.

He returns to his files and manages to get through several more before the phone buzzes.

JB: Only a few more days before the Christmas Party. I imagine I’ll see you there?

Q bites his lip. What’s going to happen when Bond realizes it’s him giving the gifts? Will he be amused at the effort Q’s made? Oh god, will he be mortified about the flirting? Unlikely — Bond seems to take everything in stride — but he may say things that would mortify Q.

But then again, maybe not. Maybe he already knows it’s Q. He’s a spy, after all. Maybe he knew it was Q quite early… when he was flirting. There’s a thrilling thought. But they spent much of the day together, and Bond never once hinted at anything. Of course, they were busy...

FC: I imagine you will.

The reply is quick.

JB: Good.

Something pleasant flips in Q’s belly.

JB: I assume you’re done with your shopping. I’ve gotten far too much already.

Q bites back a grin.

FC: There may be one or two more gifts. Several of yours were second hand, after all.

JB: I think “vintage” is the word the kids are using nowadays.

FC: Maybe so. But “vintage” just makes them ‘cool’. Second-hand makes them cheap.

JB: You’re making the rest of the Santas look bad, being so numerous and thoughtful in your gifts.

FC: I don’t know about that. My Secret Santa’s been doing very well. I’ve gained half a stone with all the treats.

JB: No you haven’t.

Q smiles. He hasn’t. Surprising as that is. He reaches for one of his tins of sweets and notices a bit of red protruding from behind his stack of files. Today’s gift. He hadn’t even noticed. And it’s not shaped like a tin. He sets the phone down and tears at the paper to find a book comparing the relative attributes of 20 different motorcycle engines.

“Wow,” Q whispers, thumbing through the pages. He’s only told one person he wants to get himself a motorbike — perhaps rebuild an old one. R does not approve the plan, but whomever she told clearly does.

The phone buzzes, and he realizes he missed a text come in.

JB: Though I’m sure your Santa is pleased that you’ve enjoyed the baked goods. Did you have a favorite?

JB: Did I lose you?

FC: Sorry. I just noticed that I was left a present today from my own Father Christmas.

JB: Ah. So I’m interesting enough for you to do all this research and come up with innovative gifts, but can’t really compete with your own presents.

“Oh, but you do,” Q mumbles. “More than you probably should.”

FC: My Secret Santa has pulled out all the stops this time. Done a bit of sleuthing.

JB: Got you something that suits you?

FC: Yeah. Not many would know about this particular interest.

JB: That is intriguing. I, for one, am glad you are getting as good as you give.

Q thumbs through the book, noting that it not only discusses the relative power of the engines, but tricks to working on them, ease of maintenance, cost of parts…

FC: I don’t know if that’s still true.

JB: it will be my first Christmas party in a number of years. But I’m looking forward to the reveal.

Q’s feels that flip again, a bit more unpleasant this time.

FC: Are you? You aren’t afraid you might be disappointed?

It sounds needy to Q, and he regrets typing it as soon as it’s sent. The response takes far too long.

JB: I don’t think that’s possible.

JB: Either you are exactly who I think you are, and I’ll be delighted, or you aren’t, and I’ll learn that someone else finds me interesting enough to go to all this trouble. Either way, it seems I win.

JB: I am a bit nervous about the reaction of the person I’ve been giving to, but even that feels more exciting than nerve-wracking.

JB: Just promise me you’ll be there.

Q hadn’t really been thinking of skipping it, but now he knows he can’t.

FC: I wouldn't miss it for anything.

JB: Good. Now get some rest. Rumour has it you had a busy day.

FC: Very well. Just one more thing to do before I go. See you in a few days.

Q packs up his paperwork and puts the phone in his courier bag. He retrieves the box of tumblers he bought at the boot sale — now nicely cleaned up — and slips the electronic ice cubes inside one of them, adding a quick note:

“Hope these help make your Christmas ‘spirits’ bright”

He steals back down to James’ locker before heading home and leaves the gift to be discovered in the morning, wiping the footage again on his way out.

His own spirits are practically glowing.


	11. "All I want for Christmas..." (Prompt 24 — Office Christmas Party)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am on the road traveling with my family, so I know these last few chapters aren't as tight as the others have been. Sorry, but I can only multitask so much, and I'd rather get them posted in a somewhat timely manner and clean them up later as need be. And Happy Christmas, everyone.

Q wakes to text:

JB: Your puns are truly terrible, but your gifts are marvelous. See you at the party.

Q can hardly think of it. He scrolls through the texts, at once _sure_ that Bond knows it’s Q he’s texting, and then _sure_ he’s just reading into things. All of MI6 was busy yesterday, after all. Bond could still be unsure of his identity or thinking he’s someone else. And Q had mentioned his treats first, hadn’t he? Bond could have been just generally denying that anyone would gain weight from Christmas treats, and not commenting on Q’s figure specifically. Though he rather likes the idea of Bond noticing his figure. And that’s the rub of it. He _wants_ so badly for it to be true that he can’t trust his own interpretation.

He goes to work and puts it out of his mind. Or tries. It’s hard when he’s snacking on homemade biscuits as he codes, wondering if it was really Bond who made them. The day is busy enough that it passes quickly, but then he’s home again with nothing to do but ponder the possibilities and grow nervous. He makes dinner to distract himself, turning on the fairy lights and sitting at the table by the window as he eats. Its threatening snow again, and though it’s lovely, his mind is spinning too much to find peace in it. What he needs is occupation. He could fiddle with some work projects, but he’s not really in the mood for tinkering. He thinks, instead, he might make one more gift.

The tabs featuring the Scottish fairy tales are still open on his laptop, and it doesn’t take long for him to record audio files of himself reading several of them, splicing together separate portions and cutting out mistakes until he has four tales recorded in their entirety. It’s late by the time he’s finished with them, and he has work in the morning, so he sets the project aside and goes to bed. But sleep doesn’t come. He wonders what Bond’s response to the stories might be. It feels so much more personal than anything else he’s given, both in terms of Bond’s desire for what must be stories from his childhood, and in the fact that Q is recording them in his own voice. It’s crossing a line, he’s sure. Perhaps Bond will find it invasive. Or maybe he’ll be touched. Or maybe Q is once again reading too much into things and Bond will barely care.

He’ll finish them tomorrow night, he decides, and then judge once he gets to the party whether to actually give them to Bond. Work the next day is interminable, and though he never sees Bond — which is fortunate as he’s not sure he could maintain any sort of composure — Eve makes a point to come down and ask if he’s coming to the party the following night.

“Is there any chance of my getting out of it?” he asks just to goad her.

“Not a one.”

He rolls his eyes.

“It’s going to be a good do.”

“I’m sure.”

“It _will_ be! You have to come.”

“I’m a department head, Moneypenny. Of course I’ll be there.”

“So it’s all just duty, is it?”

“No. I _like_ celebrating with the Minions.”

“Hmmm.” Eve’s too observant by far. “You aren’t looking forward to the reveal? Or have you sussed it all out?”

“No idea,” Q lies.

“What are you going to wear?”

Q rolls his eyes. “You aren’t dressing me, Moneypants. Now go. The party’s still a day away. I have a department to run that’s distracted enough as it is.”

“Alright. Oh, and M says the coding projects take priority over the reports at the moment.”

“Thank you, Moneypenny.”

She leaves, and he refocuses on his work. After all, he decided what he’s going to wear _days_ ago.

He gets home, eager to finish his project. He records one more tale and then sorts through the illustrations he found. Bringing the audio files into a movie program, he uses the art to complement the narration, going so far as using “Ken Burns” effects to pan from one detail of an image to another. He stays up far too late working on it, but he doesn’t have work in the morning. And there’s something about the activity that’s very satisfying. _If_ Bond is hoping that Q is the one giving the gifts… if he’s truly _delighted_ by the idea… then this seems the perfect thing to finish the gift exchange. The perfect way to show that Q sees Bond as more than a weapon, more than a suave agent. And yet it's not overtly romantic.

Q almost has himself convinced that Bond is expecting him. He dresses for the party, forgoing his usual Christmas jumper for a trim olive suit that brings out his eyes and a tie that features Christmas ornaments in jewel tones with the odd “Happy Christmas” and Cool Yule” thrown in — a bit kitsch, but not as garish as the Christmas clothes he would normally wear to an office party. Bond will likely be in a tasteful grey suite, after all. He wants a somewhat sophisticated nerd look if he's to be taken seriously. He tames his hair and dons the lighter, more stylish glasses.

He copies the audio and video files onto a shiny red thumb drive, wraps Eve’s bejeweled lockpick hair adornment, the bottle of scotch he picked up for M, and the selection of craft beers for Tanner. Then he heads out, a bit later than he anticipated.

The party is at a local hotel. Signs bearing the code name “Majesty Investments Ltd.” lead him past several security guards to the proper ballroom, where the party is already well underway. Music is playing and it seems most people are well past their first drink of the night. He finds M and Tanner first to give them their gifts. M raises an eyebrow at his attire, but graciously says nothing. After a few niceties, he moves onto a group of Q Branchers who whistle and shout in greeting, and generally tease him for looking more professional at the party than he usually does for work. One of them buys him an Old Fashioned, which is delicious, but does little to calm his nerves. He gets some food, so the drink doesn’t go immediately to his head — cheese puffs that remind him of the cheesy shortbread he made Bond.

“Well, don’t you look sharp?” comes Eve’s voice from behind him. He turns to find her in a gorgeous red sheath dress.

“And you,” he says, stepping forward to kiss her cheek. “Are you sure you’re at the right party? You seem a bit overdressed for this lot.”

She flashes him a grin.

“Though… it still needs a little something, doesn’t it?” He waves off her affronted look and hands her the small silver box wrapped with a ribbon. The grin is back as she opens the box and gasps at the contents.

“Oh, Q! This is lovely!”

“And useful,” he adds, turning it over to show the lock picks hidden beside the clip mechanism.

“You do know your way to a girl’s heart, Q: bling and break-in tools.”

Q snorts. “For all the good a girl’s heart does me,” he quips. “But I’m chuffed you’re pleased.”

“Help me put it on?” she asks, opening her small beaded purse and removing a compact mirror. He holds it for her so she can place the comb where she wants it and fasten the clasp, and watches on as she admires it in the mirror.

“You’ve really outdone yourself, Q. Mine’s not nearly as good.” She hands him a red envelope. Inside he finds two tickets.

“The Chopin Series? Seriously?”

“And I worked it with M so you’d have some time off, so you’ll definitely get there on time,” she adds, giving him a look because, yes, he has gotten caught up in work and missed show openings before.

“Ta, Eve. Do you want to come with me?”

“Not my thing. Besides, I imagine you can find someone better and more appreciative.”

Q feels his face heat and tries to cover it by taking a sip of his drink. And that’s when he sees Bond for the first time, at the other end of the room near a doorway, surrounded by people (of course), mostly other agents. He’s not wearing a suit, surprisingly enough. He’s wearing a brightly colored jumper… not exactly of the “ugly Christmas” variety, but it’s a close thing. Alec is with him, but Bond isn't looking at him and seems to be scanning the room. Something pleasant flips in Q’s stomach, and he starts making his way over.

As he struggles through the crowd, he sees a buxom blonde — from medical, he thinks — approach Bond, drape her arms around his neck and whisper something to him. He shakes his head, so she points over Bond’s shoulder, they chat a bit more, and then she squeals a laughs as Bond abruptly dips her and plants a kiss on her mouth.

That pleasant feeling drops to the pit of Q’s stomach and goes cold. He’s already moving sideways toward the door when Bond rights the girl and lets her go, and sees Q across the room. Q’s to the door before he hears his name over the music and din of the crowd and blood rushing through his ears. He’s through it and halfway down the hall when the door crashes open again.

“Q!”

He stops. He’s not going to run from Bond like some… some _stupid_ , hurt schoolboy. Fool though he may be. Squaring his shoulders, he turns to find Bond approaching him cautiously.

“Where are you off to? Haven’t you just arrived?”

Shrugging, Q replies, “I’m suddenly not in the mood for a crowd.”

Bond places his hands in his pockets and takes a few more steps forward. “I see. Only, I was hoping to give you your gift.”

The flash drive weighs heavily in Q’s pocket, but the vision of that kiss is still burned on his retinas. He shrugs again.

“Let me just get it, and we can go somewhere else… anywhere you like.”

“Oh,” Q sputters. “But I’m sure you have other, uh, people looking for you.”

“Do you mean _Janice_?”

That’s her name.

When Q doesn’t say anything, James continues, “Q, she’s drunk, and there was mistletoe. I wasn’t particularly close to it, as I pointed out to her, but she was insistent, and sometimes when on a mission, the fastest way around an obstacle is through it.”

“What mission?” Q asks, confused.

“That’s not…”. Bond shakes his head. “That was a poor choice of words. You’re not a mission. Let’s just say Janice is not the person I was hoping to find near the mistletoe tonight.”

“Oh.” Q can feel himself blush. Bond is standing close enough now that Q can smell his aftershave, practically feel the heat of his chest emanating through his jumper.

“Please tell me you’re my Secret Santa,” James whispers, getting even closer. “You’re the only one who sees things so clearly. Sees _everything_ , except perhaps yourself.”

Q nods, fishing the thumb drive from his pocket. “Here’s your last gift. You’ll have to listen to them later.”

James takes the drive, warm fingers lingering on Q’s palm and sending a thrill through Q.

“Yours is in there,” James says. “Though I’m a bit embarrassed to give it to you now that I see you dressed so smartly.”

“I thought you would wear a suit,” Q claims.

“And I thought you’d wear a jumper,” James counters.

Q huffs a laugh.

“Do you really want to leave the party?” James asks.

Q is torn. Part of him wants to go back and be social, and part of him wants James all to himself. “What do you want to do?”

“Hmmm. A great number of things. I want to take you to dinner in this suit… but not tonight, because I’m not dressed for it — and there’s a switch. I want to go back inside the party and give you your gift, though I’m unsure if a coded, light-up Christmas jumper is quite the thing now.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. And coding doesn’t come easily to me. It took three nights for me to get the lights to blink “Happy Christmas” in Morse code. But mostly, I want to do something with you. Anything you like. We can go get a coffee, or go to the cinema, or go home and have a Christmas drink — I have these glowing ice-cubes that work rather well and are only mildly disconcerting. And I’d like… I’d _really_ like to find some mistletoe.”

Q smiles and bites his lip. “Okay.”

“To which part,” James asks.

“All of it. The party, and the Christmas drink, and the… well, actually, you don’t need any mistletoe.”

James' lips are warm and taste of the finest, most decadent scotch.


	12. “I’ve got my love to keep me warm” (Prompt 30 — “Fire”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally made it to twelve! Thanks to all of you who have commented on the last two chapters. Now that this is posted, I'll try to get to my responses, but I've LOVED reading them all as they came in. New Zealand has been lovely, but obviously very distracting. Fortunately, there's time in the car to write on the phone. Please excuse any typo's that have remained as I try to clean up the one-thumb typing.
> 
> I hope everyone's having a lovely holiday!

James Bond is an _excellent_ kisser.

Their first kiss, in the hall outside the party, is sweet… almost shy. Bond cups Q’s face with both hands, brushes their lips together until Q moans, and then… god and _then…_ Q can scarcely think. They are both breathless by the time Bond pulls away and adjusts himself, watching with unabashed satisfaction as Q does the same.

“Shall we rejoin the party?” Bond asks. “If nothing else, I need to retrieve your gift before we can go anywhere.”

Q nods and feels that all eyes are on them when they go back inside, James fingers on the small of his back in a way that is both comforting and distracting. As they get a drink and chat with Q Branchers, Bond’s frequent touches feel like electricity. Q’s sure it’s all anyone sees or can talk about, the way Bond sticks close to him throughout the party. He’s nearly glowing with the pleasure of it. About an hour later, by some unspoken agreement, they say their farewells, collect their gifts, and leave together under Eve’s watchful smirk.

Outside the hotel, as they wait for the valet to bring Bond’s car, Q learns of another kind of kiss. A plundering, urgent thing that lights a fire below Q’s navel and has him grasping at the soft wool of James’ jumper until a cleared throat and the jingling of keys interrupts them. In the car, Bond threads his fingers through Q’s, and they do not speak of where they should go. Q can scarcely breathe for his anticipation.

And then they are in Bond’s flat, complete with fireplace and Christmas tree and a thick carpet by the hearth, and he learns of yet another kind of kiss. Demanding and _claiming_ and full of whisperings and groans of pleasure as jackets are shed, waistcoats unfastened, and shirts and jumpers and trousers removed. In fact, Q would like to go on record to insist that James has leave to use his mouth in _any_ way he sees fit, whether it technically qualifies as a kiss or not.

Lying on the carpet in front of the fire, laid bare by James’ fingers and words and mouth, their breath harsh and fingers tender, they come in each other’s hands. As Q recovers, he muses how quickly and easily it happened, and how it feels _years_ in the making. In the afterglow, Q is warmed in the front by a merry blaze in the hearth and from behind by the warmth of James’ solid, muscular form. Their legs are tangled, and James is tracing the line of Q’s flank and hip with gentle fingers and feathering kisses along his shoulder and the nape of his neck. _Possessive_. And Q finds he doesn’t mind at all.

Sighing happily, he nestles back against James’ chest and reaches back to stroke James’ hip, still a bit amazed that he’s allowed.

“When did you know?” he asks.

“Hmm?” comes James’ gravelly voice by his ear. “Know what?”

“That I was your Secret Santa?” Q clarifies.

“Oh.” James shifts forward, propping his head on his hand. “I suspected when Q Branch was playing a disco Christmas playlist… it seemed a bit of a coincidence. Several of the agents know I’ve started collecting vinyl again, so the jazz albums weren’t too much of a giveaway, but it would have taken a rare bit of sleuthing to discover my appreciation of funk, and rarer still for someone to indulge it without teasing. Then the mysterious texts… someone who could set up an untraceable phone and would have my number narrows the field considerably. But it was the cheesy shortbread that convinced me. I hadn’t discussed my childhood memories around shortbread with anyone else, and no one else would look for savory recipes.” James leans in to kiss Q’s shoulder. “What about you? When did you suspect me?”

“Well, the baked goods stopped around the time you and Alec were on mission.”

“I knew that was a problem. I left gifts for R to dole out, but I suspected you’d notice they were no longer perishable.”

“I still can't believe you baked for me... so many treats. And then the motorbike book… I saw you speaking with R, and she’s the only one I’ve told about wanting a motorbike. She was horrified. Spent days feeding me statistics about crash rates. As if what we do every day isn’t dangerous.”

James chuckles. “My reaction was not what she’d hoped for when telling me. She wanted me to help talk you out of it.”

Q scoffs. “Does she know you at all?”

“Apparently not. I told her the thought of you on a motorbike — particularly one you’d rebuilt yourself — was incredibly sexy.”

Bond’s lips are on his neck as Q gasps a laugh. “Oh my god, you didn’t. Did she blush? You made her blush, didn’t you?”

“And sputter,” James confirms, a grin pressed into Q’s neck.

“Serves her right, trying to recruit you to work against me.”

“Not a mistake she’ll likely make again,” James assures, lips finding Q’s pulse point.

“Well, I should hope no — oh _god_ that feels good.” He tries to focus his thoughts again. “I couldn’t believe it at first. What were the chances we’d draw _each other_ in this advent activity?”

“Eve had her fingers on the scale, I daresay.”

“Hmmm. I haven’t been able to decide if she’s a conniving bitch or the best friend we could have.”

“Both,” James chuckles. "Definitely, both.”

“The last round of texts… you were slipping. Letting on the things you knew that you shouldn’t.”

“I was growing tired of the game by then. I wanted to see if you would show yourself. If you would set it aside with me. But you held back.”

“I didn’t dare believe it. Not until you followed me and said you had another gift.”

“Well, I’m not giving you clothes _now_ , when I finally have you so nicely divested of them. Perhaps in the morning.”

Q bites back a grin and grasps James’ hand, pulling to his chest. “Tomorrow would be lovely.”

“Hmmm. What about mine, though? What’s on that red thumb drive?”

“Oh.” Q shifts in James’ embrace, trying to get closer. “I noticed that you were looking for audiobooks for certain Scottish tales.”

“You ‘noticed’?”

“Well, I hacked,” Q clarifies.

“Of course you did,” James sighs. “What exactly did you hack?”

“Nothing terribly personal… not bank accounts or porn sites or anything. Just shopping history and music history and Audible history...what?” he asks as Bond starts laughing. “I needed ideas.”

“This explains so much. Of course, you hacked me.”

“Sorry,” Q tries, hoping this isn’t going to cause a problem.

“Oh no. Don’t be. We are spies, all of us, and we all used whatever skills are at hand. I plied every Minion for information. If I’d done a better job wiping things online, you wouldn’t have succeeded in learning my secrets. And I would have been poorer for it. I’d have gotten gloves or something.”

“Well, now you’re just being ridiculous,” Q complains. “I could have done better than _gloves_ without hacking. If all else failed, I could have made you an exploding pen.”

James squeezes him harder and chuckles against his shoulder.

“So, what then? Did you find audiobooks for them? I’ll feel foolish if I can’t even Google properly…”

“Oh, no. You were right. They don’t exist commercially. So, I made some.”

James freezes.

“They’re all in public domain,” Q continues. “I’m not sure I found the versions you’re used to, but—”

“You recorded them, in your own voice?” James clarifies.

“Yes…”

James rolls Q onto his back and searches his face. “How? _Why_? Why would you do that?”

“Because you wanted them,” Q answers, thinking it’s obvious. “You looked multiple times, on multiple databases. And maybe they aren’t important, but… it seemed they might be. And… you’ve lost so much… Skyfall, and M, and your parents… so many other less pleasant ties to your past. If I have the power to return a pleasant one, I’m going to do it.”

James’ expression is thoughtful for a moment, but then he leans down and kisses Q. And this kiss is different, yet again. Soft and exploring, patient… as if asking or seeking. Q does his best to answer in the kiss, though he’s unsure of the question being asked. He opens and gives, and takes what is offered as well. When it ends, James is shaking his head.

“I can’t believe you would do that.”

“Why not?” Q asks, running fingers through James short hair.

“Because no one else would think to. And you just… you just see the truth of things and fill in any gaps. You see the patterns. You care enough to find them. You have no idea how rare that is.”

“Well, I think I may be more observant when it comes to you than anyone else.”

“Then I’m more amazed, because you’ve seen my violence and cruelty… don’t deny it. I know I’ve been cruel to you as well, though I didn't know it at the time. I remember your expression on the bridge that night.”

Q remembers it, too, though it’s hard to conjure the cold and ache of that memory when he’s feeling so warm and satisfied. When the man whose back was turned to him then is leaning over him and stroking the curls at his temple. “If you didn’t know, then you weren’t cruel,” Q reassures. “Just not as observant as I assumed.”

“I’ve definitely been more watchful since I returned. I honestly can’t imagine what I was trying to prove, but even then I knew I wasn’t really following my own desires. I was so relieved when I came back to learn you weren’t dating anyone… at least so far as people knew.”

“Is that…” Q strokes James’ arm thoughtfully, unsure how to ask. “Forgive me, this can probably wait until tomorrow, but is that what you want? To… date?”

“Yes... assuming you can tolerate what I sometimes I have to do on mission.”

“Of course,” Q dismisses the concern. “But, do you mean indefinitely? Or…”

“Or?” James asks.

Q shakes his head awkwardly. “I’m just trying to suss out how long you mean to keep me.”

“How long?” James asks. “As long as you can stand me, Q. I’m not the one who leaves people.”

James expression is open and so sincere it makes Q ache. “A very long time, then,” Q suggests, smiling.

“Suits me,” James answers, kissing him again. “Now, are you amenable to retreating to the bedroom, or do you want to stay by the fire?”

“Are you offering to keep me warm?” Q asks, and James expression goes to mischief.

“I’ll _warm_ you over and over, all night, in a variety of ways, until you beg me to let you sleep. And then I’ll _warm_ you again in the morning.”

“That was terrible,” Q laughs. “And such bold claims.”

“Is that a yes? You’re the one who hinted at being hauled off to the scrap heap on our first meeting. Makes a man want to prove himself.”

“You going to let me warm you too?”

“I’m counting on it.”

Q grins. “Then, it sounds like we don’t need a fire.”

They don’t return to MI6 for three days, and Eve is absolutely _insufferably_ pleased with herself for weeks.


End file.
